The rain pounded on my umbrella as I exited the 14th street subway. I loved this rainy season. Especially since it scattered the tourists and made New York a little more bearable. I was in my way to my favorite spot in the city: a bookstore right beside Union Square Park.

My headphones bobbed around my neck as I let them loose to hear the gorgeous melody nature was playing for me. My soul felt alive that day, fully exposed without a care in the world. This also meant I was more prone to seeing the dead.

I don’t know how long I had this special gift, perhaps I’ve always had it. My first encounter was seeing my mom in our living room months after she has passed. I freaked out, as is normal for nine year olds with any inconvenience, but I was seeing my dead mom. My dad did not know what to do, since it wasn’t him that I inherited my gift from.

“She isn’t going to hurt you,” he said. We quickly moved into another apartment after that. “She isn’t going to follow us,” he assured me. “Your mom could only see memories of people.” That meant, I learned later, I couldn’t interact with them and they couldn’t interact with me. I was only a viewer in their lives, of what they once were, of what they could remember.

I can always tell when I’m about to see a ghost. Time seems to stop for a second, and I get a sudden chill. It happened as I bounded my way to the bookstore. The rain suddenly stopped, and my arms and the back of my neck grew chicken-skin. I could see him standing across the street from me. His skin had all disappeared leaving just a skeleton, which was normal for ghost the longer they were dead.

A butterfly landed on his hand, and I could see a trace of a smile where his mouth should of been; I smiled too.